


The Heist Affair

by cirnellie_x



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mission Fic, Slow Burn, Temporary Amnesia, low-key pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6909388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cirnellie_x/pseuds/cirnellie_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was supposed to be a straightforward retrieval mission takes an unexpected turn, spurring Napoleon and Illya to face some long-unspoken truths about their feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Good morning!” said Napoleon cheerily as he entered the office in U.N.C.L.E. Headquarters that he shared with his Russian partner. Said partner glanced up at him disinterestedly, then did a double take, eyes lighting up at the doughnuts in Napoleon’s hand. He held out his hand for one.

“Thanks for the coffee,” said Napoleon, spotting the steaming cup on his desk as he handed a doughnut over. Illya grunted, the doughnut already in his mouth.

“Mr. Waverly wants to see us at nine,” Illya said indistinctly around a mouthful of pastry.

Napoleon glanced up at the clock on the wall. “We’d better get moving, then.” He leaned over, swiping the last bite of doughnut out of Illya’s fingers and popping it into his own mouth.

Illya scowled at Napoleon. Napoleon grinned back unrepentantly.

 

***

 

“This should be a relatively straightforward mission, gentlemen,” said Mr. Waverly, placing two files on the table and spinning it round to them. “It has come to our attention that there are to be highly detailed scientific notes of a new type of weaponized gas exchanging hands tomorrow night, at a fundraising gala held by a Mr. Reginald Stevens.”

“The munitions CEO?” murmured Napoleon, snapping to attention. “Weaponized gas – that’s not really his area, is it?”

Flipping open their files, the two agents scanned the contents, the first of which was a dossier on the man in question. A man who looked to be in his late forties, graying at the temples, not particularly handsome but with striking, intense gray eyes. As the CEO of a prominent weapons firm, he was frequently in the media, as much for his position as for his somewhat controversial views on national security and defense.

“Indeed, Mr. Solo. Mr. Stevens, I am told,” continued Mr. Waverly, “has been lobbying to be recruited into T.H.R.U.S.H. for quite some time. He has diverted a portion of his firm’s research funds into what he has termed ‘highly experimental’ projects, of which this gas is one. Top secret, of course. Besides him, only his closest aides are aware of the existence of these projects.”

Napoleon nodded. “I highly doubt the shareholders would approve if they knew.”

“So, this gas,” said Illya, turning the page of his folder, “is his way into T.H.R.U.S.H.?”

“Quite so, Mr. Kuryakin.” Mr Waverly paused to take a puff of his pipe. “He will deliver the formula for the gas to a representative from T.H.R.U.S.H. Central tomorrow evening, as I said. The exchange is planned for 11 p.m. on the night of his fundraising gala at the newly constructed Grand Belloc Hotel in Maryland. Mr. Stevens will personally be overseeing the security for the event.”

“Also,” Mr. Waverly leaned forward, steepling his fingers, “as the hotel was funded with Mr. Stevens’ money, it contains some...extra security measures...which are not usually built into normal hotels.”

Napoleon frowned. “Rather elaborate setup for a delivery. Why not just arrange a private meeting?”

“It would seem,” said Illya, smirking slightly, “T.H.R.U.S.H. do not quite trust our friend just yet.”

“A reasonable precaution,” agreed Mr. Waverly, “although intercepting a private meeting would have made matters decidedly simpler for us.”

Getting to his feet, he unrolled a large sheet of paper over the table. “These,” he said, “are the details we have of the security for the hotel’s vault, which is where the notes will be stored until the delivery.”

“Two keys to access the safe in the vault,” said Napoleon, “one on the chief guard and one on Stevens himself. We can get hold of those easily enough.”

“Silent alarms here and here, and cameras, of course.” Illya was completely absorbed in the diagram. Absently, Napoleon spared a fond look down at the blond head before returning his attention to the security plan.

“The locks in the corridor leading up to the vault are on a time delay and operated from a separate security room. Section Four will give you the relevant codes before you leave,” Mr. Waverly added.

“I’ll operate the locks,” volunteered Napoleon. He beamed at his partner. “You can go into the vault. I know how much you enjoy cracking safes.”

Illya scowled darkly. “You’re just lazy,” he sniffed. Turning back to the security diagram, he tapped a point, considering. “This utility corridor…”

“Probably put in to comply with the fire code.” Napoleon nodded, finishing the thought. “There are two entrances to the vault, one through the hotel – which will be heavily guarded – and the other is through the utility corridor. That’s our best way in and out.” He grinned at Illya, pleased with how they were so much in sync, as usual.

Mr. Waverly cleared his throat. “You fly tomorrow morning, gentlemen. Your tickets are in these files. Now, if you have no further questions?”

Recognizing the dismissal, the two men left their superior’s office and headed back down the hallway towards their own.

“Dinner?” suggested Napoleon, as they took their seats at their respective desks. “Come over to my place. I’ll cook, and we can work out the details for the mission.”

Illya looked up. “I thought you had a date with Sandy from Communications?”

“I’ll cancel it,” Napoleon shrugged. “She’ll understand.”

“Well, all right.” Illya had to admit, if only to himself, that it wouldn’t have taken all that much persuasion to get him to agree. Spending the evening before a mission with Napoleon, hashing out the finer details of their plans, always made him feel more centered, ready to take on anything. The fact that Napoleon was cancelling a date to spend the evening with him – even if it was only for work – was just a bonus. And _that_ was a whole other issue that he was not going to think about right now.

“I’m overwhelmed by your enthusiasm for my delicious home cooking,” said Napoleon drily. “I’d offer to bring you to a restaurant instead, but I thought it’d be better if we went over some of these details in the privacy of one of our apartments.”

“Of course, Napoleon,” said Illya agreeably. He looked up, his smile sudden and sweet. “And you know I always enjoy your cooking.”

He was half expecting a smart retort, but to his surprise, Napoleon was silent, his Adam’s apple working, then he nodded. “Okay. Yeah. Good.”

 

***

 

They left the office together as afternoon shaded into evening, stopping by one of the artisanal grocery stores that Napoleon liked. They picked up some pancetta and ground skirt steak, and Napoleon’s favorite 24-month aged Parmigiano-Reggiano which Illya privately thought was ridiculously expensive but had never actually said anything about, since the pasta dishes Napoleon made with it _did_ invariably taste sinfully delicious.

At Napoleon’s apartment, they reset the security system and did the customary security check before heading to the kitchen to start dinner. As Illya chopped the vegetables at the marble countertop, Napoleon standing behind him browning the pancetta on the stove while humming contentedly to himself, it occurred to him how domestic the whole scene was. His next thought was that that one day, his partner would marry some beautiful woman, then it would be her, instead of Illya, who would stand here in this kitchen cooking with Napoleon. He ruthlessly squashed the hollow pang of loneliness that came fast upon the heels of that thought.

Thus preoccupied, he sliced into an onion, forgetting not to breathe in, and his eyes immediately started to water. He persevered for a few more minutes before wiping his eyes roughly with his sleeve, muttering under his breath as he looked around blearily for a tissue.

“What is it?” Napoleon was by his side instantly. “Oh – ” he started laughing as Illya glared up at him with red, watery eyes. “ – wait, don’t do that, you idiot, you’re still holding the knife – ” he grabbed Illya’s wrist with one hand, snagging a tissue from the box on the countertop with the other. Stepping close, he dabbed gently at Illya’s eyes with the tissue. His other hand was warm and firm on Illya’s wrist.

“There. All better,” said Napoleon cheerfully, then abruptly seemed to notice that their faces were mere inches apart. Illya felt, rather than heard, Napoleon’s soft, surprised huff as a brush of air against his skin. The skin across Napoleon’s cheekbones was faintly pink.

Their gazes locked. Neither man moved.

Napoleon’s lips were parted invitingly. Illya unthinkingly licked his lips, then felt his face grow hot as Napoleon unconsciously mirrored the movement.

The shrill screech of the smoke alarm made them both jump. Napoleon blinked a couple of times, like a man just woken from a deep sleep, then cursed and released Illya’s wrist, hurrying toward the stove to rescue the pancetta, which was now smoking merrily.

Napoleon’s communicator starting beeping insistently. Illya snagged it off the side counter and handed it to his partner, who had turned the stove off and was staring at the charred remnants of his pancetta in disgust.

“Solo here.”

“Mr. Solo, Johnson from Section Six here. Just checking in as we received a message that your smoke alarm went off.”

There was a sound from behind him that sounded suspiciously like a snort. Napoleon glanced around, eyes narrowed, but his friend’s blond head was bent over the chopping board as he diligently worked on the remaining vegetables.

“Ah, thanks for checking in, Johnson. All fine here, just a little...accident...in the kitchen, nothing to worry about.”

Definitely a snicker from behind him this time.

“No problem, Mr. Solo. Have a good night!” chirped the voice before the channel clicked shut.

Putting down his communicator, Napoleon walked around the kitchen island to peer suspiciously at Illya. The blond managed to continue chopping the vegetables for a couple of minutes, expression demure, before he gave in to temptation and raised his head to meet Napoleon’s narrowed gaze, eyes dancing. The two men stared at each other for a moment, then they both burst out laughing.

Holding on to each other for support, they both sank to the floor, shaking with laughter. They ended up leaning on each other, backs against the cool marble side of the kitchen island.

“Really, Napoleon,” said Illya, voice low and husky from laughing. He was still leaning against the kitchen island, head tilted back, looking at nothing in particular, so he completely missed the flash of heat in Napoleon’s quick glance. “By tomorrow morning the whole of Section Six will have heard about how you set your kitchen on fire because you were too busy having sex with one of your women.”

And Napoleon really wished Illya hadn’t said that, because he had been thinking about Illya, and now he was thinking about sex. And Illya. Sex with Illya. Which...to tell the truth, _definitely_ wasn’t the first time he had thought about it. In fact, it had been an alarmingly regular fantasy the past few months. Illya would kill him if he knew. He buried his face in his hands.

“Well,” Illya rose gracefully to his feet, offering his hand to Napoleon to pull his friend up. “Cheer up,” he said consolingly, blithely oblivious to the real source of Napoleon’s despair. “It’s not like it’s ever bothered you to have someone gossiping about you before.”

 

***

 

Napoleon woke early the next morning, showered, shaved and dressed, then headed downstairs to Illya’s apartment and rang the doorbell. Illya answered the door almost immediately, in socked feet and doing up the top two buttons of his shirt.

“Let’s go,” he said, haphazardly tightening his tie and slipping his socked feet into his shoes.

“Sloppy,” Napoleon chided his partner, putting his suitcase down and straightening Illya’s tie for him.

“ _I’m_ not the one trying to impress the stewardesses,” Illya reminded him tartly, but allowed Napoleon to fuss with his tie anyway. He picked his battered suitcase up in one hand and Napoleon’s in the other and headed toward the elevator, letting Napoleon take care of locking up his apartment.

Downstairs, they loaded their suitcases into Napoleon’s car. Illya eyed the car keys in Napoleon’s hand hopefully. “Can I drive?”

Napoleon grinned. “I’ll let you drive on the way back.”

“You always say that,” Illya grumbled. “And somehow I’ve always sprained my ankle or broken a wrist on the way back, so you end up driving then, too.”

“You get yourself injured way too often.” Napoleon frowned over at his partner as he got into the driver’s seat. “Consider this added incentive to keep yourself in one piece, partner mine.”

 

***

 

The flight was short and uneventful, just the way Napoleon liked it. He appreciatively eyed the pert bottom of a blonde stewardess who was leaning over to help an elderly passenger with her seatbelt a few rows up. Next to him, Illya put his drink down on the tray table forcefully, the ice rattling loudly in the plastic cup. Napoleon turned to glance at his partner, but Illya had closed his eyes, leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed, and for all intents and purposes appeared to have gone to sleep.

After the plane landed, they collected their carry-ons and drove the short distance in their rental car to the Grand Belloc Hotel, where the fundraiser was going to be held that night, and checked into their room.

Napoleon turned the key in the lock and opened the hotel room door, peering into the huge room in surprise. “Mm, nice,” he said appreciatively, looking around the spacious, tastefully decorated one-bedroom suite they’d been given. “Much more extravagant than our usual.”

“Don’t get too excited,” advised Illya, dropping his suitcase in the middle of the suite’s bedroom, then flopping onto the large bed. “This is an all-suite hotel, remember?”

“Ah, yes.” Napoleon nodded. “That’s a relief. Mr. Waverly generally only splurges on us when he’s about to send us to certain death. I was a little worried.”

Illya yawned and stretched luxuriously. His white shirt, mostly untucked, rode up a little, revealing a sliver of toned belly. Napoleon eyed it with interest.

“Well,” said Illya, sitting up suddenly. Napoleon hastily looked away, and busied himself shoving Illya’s suitcase into a corner, where neither of them would trip over it.

“Let’s go look around,” Illya continued. He opened up his suitcase and dug through it enthusiastically.

“Sometimes,” groused Napoleon, watching his partner sorting through his gear lovingly, “I think you like all that stuff more than you like me.”

“Some of this _stuff_ is very delicate, Napoleon. It requires a light touch,” replied Illya severely. “ _You _, a little less so.”__

 

***

 

They spent the next couple of hours reconnoitering, as Illya had suggested. They explored the beautifully-landscaped hotel gardens, wandering down the sun-dappled cobblestone paths, then watched the guards Stevens had posted patrol the hotel while they ate a late lunch on the hotel terrace. There were two sets of guards patrolling at regular intervals, covering the front and back of the gardens. Fortunately, neither of the patrols passed too near the door to the utility corridor that Illya would be using to access the vault, so it was unlikely that he would be discovered as long as he avoided the patrols on his way to the door.

After lunch, they retired to their hotel room, where Napoleon insisted on going over the plan again. They settled down in the living room of their suite, Napoleon on the leather couch, Illya in the armchair at right angles to him, their knees bumping. Napoleon unrolled the plan of the vault and spread it over the coffee table. They tossed ideas back and forth, refining the details of their plan and laying out the gear they needed.

“And remember,” said Napoleon, tapping Illya’s knee, “the two vault doors can only be opened remotely, and they’re on a timer once opened. After I’ve gotten into the security room upstairs and opened the doors, you have three minutes to enter the first door, and another two minutes to get to the second door before it relocks.”

Illya nodded. “Yes, Napoleon, I’ll remember.”

“And,” continued Napoleon, drumming his fingers on the table, “once you’re in the vault, you have ten minutes to get the formula and get out. After ten minutes, the corridor is filled with a paralytic gas as a defense mechanism against would-be burglars.”

“Stop worrying, Napoleon,” said Illya calmly. “I will be fine.”

“I worry about you _constantly_ ,” grumbled Napoleon. “Don’t get yourself killed. I’ve just gotten you trained to my liking.”

“I shall do my very best to not cause you inconvenience,” replied Illya, dry as dust. “We have a few hours before we begin. Do you want to shower first, or shall I?”

 

***

 

Illya ended up taking the first shower. While Napoleon took his turn, Illya ordered room service for both of them, then stretched out on the couch and flipped through some magazines.

The food arrived before Napoleon was out of the shower. Illya opened the bathroom door and stuck his head in just as the water shut off. “Hurry up, Napoleon, the food’s getting co – oh, sorry.”

Drawing back the shower curtain, Napoleon stepped out, gloriously naked and dripping wet, small rivulets of water still running down muscled arms and thighs. He didn’t seem surprised to find his partner standing right in front of him. “You can eat first if you want,” he said cheerfully, reaching for a towel. “I know how cranky you get when your food gets cold.”

“I do not get cranky,” Illya replied automatically. A drop of water traced a path down Napoleon’s collarbone, lingering lovingly for a moment in the hollow of his throat, then started to leisurely make its way down his broad chest. Illya’s mouth went dry.

Napoleon ducked his head and started to vigorously towel his hair dry. A few glistening droplets of water on his chest gave a little skip at the sudden movement and meandered a little ways down, where they merged into one large drop that lazily drifted lower, wending its way down an expanse of smooth, tanned skin. Illya swallowed hard and hurriedly dragged his gaze back up – only to realize that his partner had finished drying his hair and was now looking at him with a thoughtful expression on his handsome face, head tilted slightly to one side.

“I think I will eat first after all,” announced Illya, cheeks burning, and fled.

 

***

 

Evening found Napoleon barefoot in front of the suite’s full-length mirror, in a waistcoat and an impeccably pressed pair of pants, adjusting his bowtie.

“How do I look?” he asked, pulling his tuxedo jacket on in one smooth motion as his partner emerged from the bathroom, dressed in the fitting black turtleneck and pants that he favored on the occasions that he wasn’t required to dress up for a mission.

Illya stared at him. “I believe social convention dictates that some kind of footwear is required.”

“Oh, har har,” grumbled Napoleon, bending over to pull on his socks and shoes. Illya snuck a quick glance at the expensive fabric pulling taut over Napoleon’s very nice behind, mentally gave himself a stern talking-to about temptation and the resisting thereof, and retired to the safety of his lockpicking tools over on his side of the room.

Napoleon glanced up at the clock. “Ready?”

He retrieved the gala invitation that Section Four had procured for him from his suitcase and tucked it into his tuxedo jacket. He wasn’t happy about having to go to the gala unarmed, but security would be tight and he didn’t want to raise any suspicions.

Illya nodded, buckling his shoulder holster on and slinging a small bag of tools over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Just before eight o’clock, they synchronized their watches and prepared to set out separately, Napoleon downstairs to the gala, Illya out into the hotel gardens. Napoleon hesitated briefly, touching his partner’s shoulder. “Be careful.”

Illya nodded. “You too.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Napoleon headed downstairs to the hotel’s main ballroom, where the gala was being held, leaving Illya in their hotel room busily uncoiling a length of rope. After going through the requisite security screenings, he was finally allowed into the ornate ballroom, which was filling up quickly as the guests arrived, resplendent in their formal eveningwear.

Accepting a glass of champagne from one of the numerous waiters bringing round trays of drinks and hors d’oeuvres, he meandered through the crowded ballroom, unobtrusively scanning the crowd while sipping his champagne and chatting with fellow guests. He had just made the acquaintance of two lovely young women – sisters – who had come to the fundraiser together when he spotted the man he was looking for across the room, standing by the bar.

Gallantly offering to escort the two sisters to get something to drink, Napoleon strolled over to the crowded bar, one lady on each arm, guiding them gently towards where Reginald Stevens was standing, talking in a low voice to one of his security officers.

“What would you like to drink, ladies?” Napoleon asked, smiling, and clumsily bumped into Stevens. “Ah – excuse me, sorry about that.”

Stevens nodded curtly at Napoleon, then turned back to his conversation with his security officer. Not missing a beat, Napoleon slipped the key he’d adroitly slid out of Stevens’ pants pocket into his own pocket, and, beaming at the two ladies with him, leaned over the bar to order drinks for them.

Ten minutes later, he’d ushered the ladies back over to a less crowded area of the ballroom and excused himself, explaining that he’d just caught a glimpse of an old friend whom he absolutely had to go say hello to.

Still holding his glass of champagne, Napoleon strolled casually over to the polished glass sliding doors framed by heavy brocade curtains at one side of the ballroom, which opened out onto the lush hotel gardens. Sliding one side open, he slipped out quietly and followed the gently winding cobblestone path into the hotel gardens. It was a pleasantly cool night out, and a few other people – couples, mostly – were also strolling around exploring the beautifully landscaped gardens. Taking a quick look around to make sure nobody was paying particular attention to him, he wandered over to a potted fern and, slipping the key he’d taken from Stevens earlier out of his pocket, dropped it into the pot, pressing it firmly into the dirt to make sure nobody would see the telltale glint of metal. That accomplished, he took a sip of his champagne and unhurriedly wandered up the path, back toward the hotel.

Stepping through the sliding doors back into the ballroom, Napoleon put his champagne glass down on a side table and casually brushed some dew from the gardens off his sleeve. He closed the sliding doors leading to the gardens and wandered towards the kitchens, following behind a waiter carrying a tray of empty plates.

The waiter disappeared through the swinging doors leading into the kitchens and Napoleon followed suit. The waiter darted a startled glance at the tuxedo-clad interloper, but Napoleon just nodded at him, smiled pleasantly, and strode purposefully across the room to the door at the other end. The harried kitchen staff, engrossed in their duties, barely spared him a glance. _Amazing what you can get away with_ , Napoleon thought amusedly, _when you look like you know what you’re doing._

He exited the kitchen through the doors at the far end, and, recalling the plan of the hotel that he and Illya had pored over earlier, ducked into a door labelled “Staff Only” and hurried up two flights of stairs. Exiting the stairwell, he almost cannoned into a bored-looking guard whom he quickly knocked out. Other than the unconscious guard, whom Napoleon shoved inside a convenient storage closet, the corridor was empty.

Spotting the security room he was looking for at the end of the hallway, Napoleon hurried over to it and opened the door, leaping at the single guard inside and knocking him out just as the startled man was reaching for the alarm. Closing the door quietly behind him, he dragged the unconscious guard out of his chair and laid him on the floor, taking his place in the chair.

He glanced up at the panel of monitors above him, all displaying security footage from the various cameras distributed throughout the hotel, zeroing in on the two located in the utility corridor leading to the hotel’s vault. No sign of Illya, of course – his partner would never make a rookie mistake like wandering into the range of a security camera if he could help it – but Napoleon couldn’t help feeling a tiny flicker of disappointment nevertheless; it would have been nice, he thought, to have some reassurance that Illya was alright.

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, returning his attention to the chrome-paneled dashboard in front of him and locating the keypad where security codes were entered. Meticulously, he entered the codes that Section Four had given him, then sat back and looked up at the security monitors again, watching the first and second vault doors slide open. The digits “2:59” appeared on the small panel beside the keypad, counting down the three minutes until the first vault door automatically relocked.

Napoleon took a deep breath. It was all up to Illya now.

 

***

 

In the hotel room, Illya checked his watch, did a brief mental calculation and nodded to himself. Taking the length of rope he’d removed from his suitcase earlier, he went into the bedroom – where Napoleon had helped him shift the bed over to the window before he’d left for the gala – and looped one end around the leg of the bed, tying it tight. Inspecting it critically, he tugged hard on it to make sure it would hold, then took the other end and opened the bedroom window. A quick glance outside satisfied him that the garden just below his window was silent and deserted.

He tossed the end of the rope out the window and climbed nimbly down, jumping the last couple of feet to the ground, landing soundlessly. His soft shoes made no noise as he hurried behind a clump of bushes, crouching behind them and peeking out. Half a minute later, a pair of guards walked past, speaking to each other in low voices. The moonlight glinted off the guns holstered at their sides.

Once the two men were safely past, Illya hurried silently across the garden and made his way to the front of the hotel, keeping in the cover of the bushes as much as he could. Reaching the potted fern that Napoleon had pointed out earlier that afternoon, he slipped his hand into the pot, rummaging around in the dirt. His hand hit something cold and hard. Closing his fingers around the key, he drew it out and slipped back into the shadows, heading back the way he came, toward the rear of the hotel.

The lock on the utility door that served as a back entrance to the hotel was easy to pick, and Illya was inside the utility entrance before the men patrolling had even finished a full loop of the garden. He made his way down the narrow corridor, careful to avoid the electric eye alarm system and the cameras rigged at strategic points. He had just reached the door to the guardroom when the sound of voices inside made him hesitate, arm already outstretched to open the door. Reginald Stevens – whose voice he recognized from having seen the man on television – was inside, talking to the lone guard. Illya scowled to himself and backtracked, looking for a place to hide and hoping that Stevens would leave soon.

He found a conveniently placed ventilation shaft at floor level, and with the help of a small screwdriver from his set of tools, removed the cover and crawled into the shaft, propping the cover back up in front of him. He checked his watch, and waited.

The seconds ticked by. Crouched uncomfortably in the ventilation shaft, sweat beading on his forehead, Illya checked his watch yet again. Five minutes had passed and Reginald Stevens was still in the guard room. He would have to go ahead with their plan – Napoleon would be opening the doors to the vault soon, and once he did, Illya would only have three minutes to get through the first door before it relocked. He grimaced. It would have been much better if Stevens had been left unaware of his and Napoleon’s presence – once the theft of the formula was discovered, U.N.C.L.E. involvement would definitely be suspected and T.H.R.U.S.H. would be on high alert, but _knowing_ the faces of the men you were hunting for was a different thing altogether, and would make his and Napoleon’s return to New York that much more difficult. Illya stifled a sigh and began to loosen the cover of the ventilation shaft.

Just then, he heard a click as the door to the guard room opened, and Stevens’ and the guard’s voices grew louder. Illya froze, holding his breath.

“Make sure you get it done,” said Stevens irritably.

“Yes, sir,” replied the guard. He sounded nervous.

Stevens’ footsteps faded down the corridor, in the direction of the hotel.

Illya waited until he heard the door to the hotel open, then slide shut as Stevens exited, then sprang into action. Crawling out of the ventilation shaft, not bothering to replace the cover, he hurried to the guard room and tapped on the closed door. Somewhere to his right, he heard the grinding of the heavy vault door sliding open. Napoleon was right on time. _Damn. Three minutes._

“Sir?” the guard asked apprehensively, opening the door.

Illya shot the surprised man point-blank with a sleep dart, then quickly and efficiently searched the unconscious guard, triumphantly procuring the key he needed from a key ring on the man’s belt. Key in hand, he ran full-tilt toward the vault door. It was just starting to slide shut.

He got through the first vault door with half a second to spare. As the door clanged shut behind him, he hurried carefully along the corridor, keeping a lookout for cameras or booby traps, but none were in evidence.

With a whir, the second vault door started to close.

Illya leapt desperately towards the second door, stumbling through it just as it clanged shut. He took a deep breath, leaning against the wall for support, heart thudding in his chest.

 

***

 

Shutting the door of the security room quietly behind him, Napoleon headed towards the hotel’s service elevator, getting in and hitting the button for the floor of his and Illya’s suite. As the elevator jolted upward, he wondered how Illya was getting along in the vault. He really was turning into a mother hen when it came to his partner, he thought wryly.

When he reached his floor, Napoleon walked briskly along the hallway and entered his and Illya’s suite, efficiently packing up all their belongings into their two small suitcases. He slipped his shoulder holster back on, heaving a small sigh of relief as he did so; being unarmed on a mission always made him antsy. He checked the window quickly – Illya’s rope was still there, undisturbed, one end tied tightly to the foot of the bed. Good.

Peering out the window, Napoleon saw no movement in the gardens below, but decided to err on the side of caution anyway and not toss the suitcases down in case anyone heard the noise and came to investigate. He pulled the rope up, tying the first suitcase to the end, and quickly lowered it into the garden below. When it was safely on the ground, he climbed down the rope, untied the suitcase and climbed back up.

Looking around the suite, he spared a moment to wistfully think about how nice it would be to be able to spend the night in the luxurious suite, instead of having to head to the airport and take the redeye back to New York. _And,_ his traitorous mind supplied, _if they had to spend the night here, he’d get to share that nice big bed with Illya..._

He shook his head, turned all the lights in the suite off and repeated the earlier process for the second suitcase.

With both himself and the two suitcases safely on the ground, Napoleon grabbed a suitcase in each hand and made for a dense clump of bushes, settling down behind them to wait for the guards patrolling the garden to pass by.

Once the men were safely past, Napoleon scurried out from behind the bushes and headed to his and Illya’s rental car in the outdoor parking lot, hurriedly tossing the suitcases in the back seat and closing the car door as quietly as he could. Sneaking back into the hotel garden, he hurried to the utility entrance at the back of the garden. The door opened easily under his touch, and he peered in cautiously before padding silently in, making sure to avoid the security cameras and tripwires. Illya would _never_ let him hear the end of it if he tripped an alarm and blew the mission.

The corridor was still and quiet, the door leading to the guard room ajar. Gingerly pushing it open, Napoleon almost tripped over the body of the unconscious guard, Illya’s sleep dart still sticking out of the man’s neck. He glanced at his watch. Illya had three minutes left to get out of the vault. Backing out of the guard room, he turned and headed toward the closed vault door.

 

***

 

Catching his breath, Illya went over to the far wall of the vault and inspected it. There was a large cupboard there, with two keyholes. Evidently that was where he would find the safe.

Taking the two keys out from his pocket, he fit the one Napoleon had pickpocketed from Stevens into the keyhole on the left, and the one he’d taken from the guard outside into the one on the right. He turned both keys, and the doors swung open to reveal the safe that he’d expected.

Illya glanced at his watch. Seven minutes left. He would have to work quickly.

Shrugging the small bag he’d brought with him off his shoulder, he selected two tools – a mini drill designed by Section Eight to his very detailed specifications, and a small borescope. Deftly, he drilled a small hole beside the combination lock, about an eighth of an inch in diameter, angling the drill down slightly. Once he’d finished drilling, he carefully inserted the borescope into the hole, peering into it so he could see the wheels of the combination lock turn as he slowly twisted the dial – first right, then left, then right – heaving a sigh of relief as the last wheel clicked into place and the door of the safe swung open.

Illya checked his watch again. Almost out of time. Haphazardly grabbing all the papers in the safe, not even checking to see what they were, he shoved the whole lot into his bag, throwing his tools in after. He slammed the safe shut and closed the cupboard doors, then yanked the two keys out of the keyholes and threw those into his bag too. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he dashed to the other side of the room, desperately slamming his hand on the button to open the vault door.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

Napoleon glanced at his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. His partner had one minute left to get out of the vault before its defense systems would trigger and Illya would be hit with paralytic gas.

He stared desperately at the vault door in front of him. It remained stubbornly silent and shut.

The seconds ticked down. Still nothing.

Napoleon gritted his teeth and checked his watch again.

Half a minute left.

 _Come on, Illya_ , thought Napoleon, heart hammering in his throat. He pressed his hands to the heavy vault door, leaning his forehead against the cold metal, willing it to open.

Ten seconds left.

Five, four, three, two, one...

_Click._

The door slid slowly open, and Napoleon practically fell into the vault – just in time to hear an ominous click and whirr as a small panel in the ceiling slid open and the corridor started to fill with a greyish vapor. A few steps in front of him, Illya’s eyes widened and he started coughing, staggering back and falling to his knees as the vapor filled his lungs.

“ _Illya!_ ”

Hastily drawing an arm across his face in an attempt to keep the gas out, Napoleon stepped forward, willing himself not to breathe in, and gripped his friend firmly by the arm, pulling him to his feet and tugging him forward. Illya stared up at him blankly for a second, then his whole face contorted, and he pulled back roughly from Napoleon and scrambled into the far end of the corridor, shivering.

Arm still stretched out, Napoleon froze. _What?_

Illya stared up at him, blue eyes wide and unfocused, pupils blown. He made a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a whimper.

Napoleon realized two things at the same time. Firstly, Illya was still moving, so whatever that gas was, it wasn’t the paralysis gas they’d expected. And secondly – Illya was looking at him with no recognition in his eyes whatsoever. In fact, he was curled up in a corner, staring at Napoleon with an unfamiliar expression, very like...fear?

 _The gas_ , realized Napoleon, horrified. Stevens must have replaced the paralytic gas with his new experimental gas. He had no idea what the effects of this gas were, and how permanent they would be – he had to get Illya out of there _right now_.

Napoleon’s lungs were burning with the effort of holding his breath, the tightness in his throat and chest almost unbearable. Lunging forward, he grabbed Illya’s arm firmly, pulling him up and back toward the open vault door.

“No,” gasped Illya hoarsely, scrabbling at Napoleon’s arm, desperately trying to pry himself free. “No, no, no, _please_.”

 _I’m so sorry, Illya,_ thought Napoleon as he yanked his friend desperately toward the door. His heart clenched in his chest at the muffled sob that tore from Illya’s throat as the younger man shivered violently in his grip. Illya may have been the shorter of the two of them, but he was solidly built, and it was all Napoleon could to do to get them out the door, Illya fighting him every step of the way. His eyes were watering with the sting of the vapor.

One final lunge, and they were finally out the door. The moment Napoleon relinquished his grip on his partner’s arm, Illya dashed away from him like a shot, running into the corner of the room furthest from Napoleon and huddling there.

Napoleon, meanwhile, sprinted back into the vault corridor and hit the button that would shut the door, hurrying back out as it slid closed. He propped himself against the wall with one hand, gratefully gulping in huge lungfuls of air as the door finally clanged shut.

Looking up, he eyed his partner in the opposite corner of the room. Illya was curled up against the wall with his knees drawn up, arms wrapped protectively around himself.

Napoleon took a tentative step towards his partner. Illya whimpered and curled even further into the corner. Napoleon quickly backpedaled.

He stared at Illya helplessly. Illya stared back.

Leaning with his back against the wall, Napoleon slowly slid down until he was sitting on the dusty floor, eye to eye with Illya across the room.

“Do you know who I am?” he asked tentatively.

Illya eyed him warily, then shook his head.

Napoleon nodded slowly. He hadn’t expected otherwise, having seen no recognition in Illya’s eyes since he’d opened the vault, but it still hurt a little to have his suspicions confirmed. He fought down a stab of panic as it occurred to him that the effects might be permanent, and firmly told himself that once he got Illya back to safety, the U.N.C.L.E. lab could look his partner over and start reverse-engineering an antidote. He would _not_ lose Illya to this. The important thing now was to calm Illya down, then get them both out of there. If he tried to drag Illya out now, with Illya fighting him all the way, there was absolutely no chance they’d make it to their car without being noticed.

He checked his watch. Luckily, they’d started out early – they had about an hour and a half before Stevens would come down to the vault to retrieve his notes.

They spent half an hour in silence, Napoleon carefully nonchalant, keenly watching his partner without appearing to. Gradually, Illya’s rapid breathing started to even out, the dilation of his pupils lessening somewhat.

Hoping to get Illya accustomed to being around him again, Napoleon smiled wryly at the blond man huddled in the corner, and kept his voice soft and calm. “Bit of a mess we’ve gotten ourselves into, hmm?”

His partner stared back at him, but didn’t reply.

“Illya?” Napoleon tried again. “How are you feeling?”

“Illya?” It was the first time Illya had spoken since Napoleon had gotten him out of the vault. “Is that my name?”

“Yes.” Napoleon nodded. “And my name is Napoleon. I’m your partner.”

“Partner?” Illya looked puzzled. “What do we do? Law enforcement?”

“Something of the sort,” Napoleon replied carefully, not wanting to overwhelm his friend with information. “You were hit by some kind of gas that seems to cause memory loss, but when we get back to Headquarters, we can get help there.”

His partner mulled this over in silence.

“May I,” Napoleon gestured over at Illya’s corner of the room, “sit over there with you?”

Illya considered this gravely. After a few moments, he nodded.

Getting up, Napoleon slowly walked over to his friend’s side and sat down next to him. Illya tensed up slightly.

“Okay?” said Napoleon gently.

After a pause, Illya nodded again.

There was a short silence. Napoleon shifted over slightly, pressing his shoulder against Illya’s reassuringly. Illya tilted his head, leaning trustingly against his shoulder, and Napoleon couldn’t help the small smile that curved his lips despite the dire situation they were in.

He checked his watch again. “We need to get out of here and go back to New York,” he told his partner. “Will you come with me?”

Illya nodded, getting up and obediently following Napoleon as he led them out of the utility corridor and back into the hotel gardens, the same way Illya had come in. Napoleon noted, with some dismay but no real surprise, that while Illya was treading quietly enough, he wasn’t looking out for the guards, just silently following Napoleon when the older agent ducked behind a convenient plant or wall to avoid being spotted.

Keeping a sharp eye out for the guards patrolling the gardens, Napoleon got them to their rental car without incident, weighing his options all the while. The hour’s delay meant that they wouldn’t have much of a head start before Stevens discovered the theft of his precious notes. And while Stevens might not have any idea of the identity of the culprits, T.H.R.U.S.H. would suspect U.N.C.L.E. involvement immediately. He and Illya weren’t exactly unknown to T.H.R.U.S.H. – going to the airport to catch a flight with such a small head start meant there was a very high likelihood they’d be spotted while waiting for their flight, and he didn’t want to risk Illya’s safety in a fight while he was still under the effects of the unknown gas.

Napoleon’s entire being was screaming at him to get back to Headquarters _right now_ to get Illya to Medical, T.H.R.U.S.H. be damned. He told himself firmly that Illya didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, and he was _not_ going to let his currently defenseless partner get killed by a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent shooting at him.

Probably best to drive back to New York, he decided. It was about a four-hour drive straight back, but it’d be easy for T.H.R.U.S.H. to find them on the highway, so a detour was definitely in order. He’d head north-west, maybe find an inn for them to spend a couple of hours at before continuing back to Headquarters. T.H.R.U.S.H. would expect them to head back to New York immediately, so the couple of hours’ delay would probably clear a way for them to head back while T.H.R.U.S.H. started searching further out.

Nodding decisively to himself, he headed to the driver’s side of the car and got in. Illya hesitated momentarily, frowning pensively and darting a glance over at the driver’s side before getting into the passenger side, buckling himself in. Napoleon drove them out of the parking lot, heading westward and making sure to stick to the small roads.

 

***

 

Two and a half hours later, Napoleon parked the car by the side of a road in a small Pennsylvanian town. Illya was dozing peacefully in the passenger seat. Leaning over, Napoleon gently nudged his friend awake, quashing his disappointment as Illya looked over at him sleepily, awareness but still no familiarity in the blue gaze.

“How are you feeling?” Napoleon asked.

“Fine,” said Illya, rubbing his eyes tiredly and stifling a yawn.

Napoleon nodded. “There’s a motel a block over. Shall we?”

Illya nodded, getting their bags out of the car while Napoleon did a quick check to make sure they hadn’t left anything in the car that could be linked to them, or to U.N.C.L.E.. Bags in hand, the pair of agents headed into the dilapidated-looking motel.

Once they had gotten a room – sparsely furnished but clean – Napoleon pulled out his communicator to check in with Mr. Waverly, giving him a quick rundown of the evening’s events and promising to be back in Headquarters as soon as possible.

Clicking the communicator off, he nodded at the bed on one side of the tiny room. “Might as well get some rest,” he told Illya. “We’ll leave in a couple of hours.”

Illya nodded, clambering into one side of the bed and shutting his eyes. He was asleep in minutes. At least one thing hadn’t changed, thought Napoleon, smiling fondly.

He turned the light off, carefully placed his gun on the small table by the bed and got into the other side of the bed. Propping himself up on a pillow and leaning back against the headboard, he stared out the motel room’s tiny window and went over the day’s events in his mind, unable to keep himself from worrying about Illya, and whether his partner’s memory loss would be reversible.

Illya snuffled and rolled over in his sleep, curling up against Napoleon. Napoleon blinked in surprise, looking down at the blond head, silvery in the moonlight, then let out a slow breath and curled his arm around his partner, tucking him securely against his side.

 

***

 

About an hour and a half later, the sound of two cars pulling up in quick succession on the quiet street outside the motel had Napoleon sitting up straight in the bed, instantly alert. Getting out of bed slowly so he wouldn’t wake Illya, Napoleon edged over to the motel window and peeked out cautiously, grimacing as he spotted the distinctive T.H.R.U.S.H. logo on the uniforms of the men coming out of the cars.

They hadn’t been followed – Napoleon was very sure of that – so T.H.R.U.S.H. was probably searching spots within a certain radius of Stevens’ hotel, and didn’t yet know that Napoleon and Illya were here. It was just his phenomenal bad luck, thought Napoleon gloomily, that they had to pick _here_ , of all places, to search.

He hurried back to the bed and gently shook his partner awake. Illya jerked upright instantly, looking around wildly for a moment, hand instinctively reaching under his pillow, before registering Napoleon’s presence. Withdrawing his hand from under the pillow, he stared at it in some bewilderment.

“You usually sleep with your gun under your pillow,” Napoleon explained. “We both do. I guess you’ve still got that muscle memory.”

“I may have forgotten who I am,” said Illya, still staring at his hand, “but it seems that my body still remembers.” He looked so lost for a moment that Napoleon had to look away before he did something stupid like pull Illya into his arms and not let go.

“We’ll get your memory back,” Napoleon gripped his partner’s shoulder hard. “I promise.”

Illya nodded, calm expression back in place. “I presume that you woke me as we are leaving this motel now?”

Napoleon nodded, gesturing to the window. “We need to get moving– our friends from T.H.R.U.S.H. have just shown up.”

“Thrush?” asked Illya, then shook his head. “Never mind. You can explain that to me later.” He tilted his chin towards their suitcases in the corner of the room. “Leave the luggage?”

“We just need this,” Napoleon snagged Illya’s small backpack from on top of the suitcases and handed it to his partner. “It’s got the formula we came for in it. Leave the rest.”

The two men snuck quietly out from their room and down the emergency stairs at the back of the motel, walking a block over and getting back into the car they’d arrived in. As Napoleon started the engine up, sudden shouts from behind them alerted them to the fact that they’d been spotted. A bullet whizzed by the car window. Napoleon swore under his breath and floored the gas pedal.

Tires squealing, the car swung sharply round a corner and tore down the quiet main street, two T.H.R.U.S.H. cars following in hot pursuit. A few more shots rang out; both men flinched as the rear windscreen of their car shattered. Lights started to go on in the houses up and down the street.

Napoleon darted a worried glance into the rearview mirror and tossed his gun into Illya’s lap.

“Still remember how to shoot?” he asked, only half joking.

Illya shrugged. “Let’s find out.” He clicked the safety off and rolled the car window on the passenger side down. Cautiously leaning out, he fired a couple of shots. The car right behind them swerved off the street and into some unfortunate resident’s front lawn, slamming into the mailbox and knocking it over. All the lights in the house came on and the sounds of angry shouting faded out as they drove away.

Napoleon grinned over at his partner. “Good shot.”

Illya returned Napoleon’s grin with a small, tentative smile of his own, then peered over his shoulder and out the shattered rear windshield at the second T.H.R.U.S.H. car, which was still tailing them. He took aim, and shot again. The T.H.R.U.S.H. car swerved, but kept going. Illya muttered crossly under his breath.

“Hang on,” Napoleon warned him, then took a sharp corner, cut a light – fortunately there wasn’t anyone else on these small roads at this time of the night – and swung the car onto the ramp leading to the highway. The T.H.R.U.S.H. car followed.

Once they were on the highway, Napoleon floored the gas again, hoping to put some distance between them and their pursuers. Illya took a couple of shots at the T.H.R.U.S.H. men, but it was too dark for him to get a good shot. They looked to be gaining a little ground on the T.H.R.U.S.H. car until, as Napoleon approached the next highway exit, another car shot out of the exit, going against traffic, and almost crashed into their car. Cursing in frustration, Napoleon swung the car sharply to the side, just managing to avoid the other car, then continued straight on the highway as fast as their car could go.

Illya turned, looking at the two cars pursuing them. “It looks like our friends called for backup.”

“Lovely,” grumbled Napoleon. He took the next exit off the highway, hoping to lose the pursuit on smaller roads. They were out of luck, however – the turnoff led to a large open area which appeared to be a lookout point. On one side of the area was a small parking lot in front of a small copse of trees where what looked like a hiking trail began; the other side ended abruptly at a sheer cliff-face leading down to a choppy bay. There was a low fence ringing the open area facing the cliff; a small, dilapidated sign on the fence warned visitors not to step over the barrier.

There was only one exit leading out from the lookout point. As Napoleon turned the car toward it, a car turned in, blocking the exit. At the same time, the two cars that had been pursuing them pulled into the narrow entrance to the area, effectively fencing their car in.

“Damn it,” muttered Napoleon. He killed the engine, gesturing to Illya to get out of the car and behind it. They’d be sitting ducks if they stayed in the car.

“What now?” muttered Illya. The two men were huddled behind the car, guns in hand. Right behind them was the low fence, then the sheer drop down to the rocky bay below. Napoleon grimaced. The odds were not looking good right now. If they could get to the copse of trees behind the parking lot, that would at least provide some cover, but that was quite a distance away with no cover in between. The sound of car doors slamming told them that the T.H.R.U.S.H. men were out of their cars and running towards them.

Illya popped up from behind the car and fired a couple of shots, bringing down one of the approaching men, then ducked back down and reloaded his gun. Napoleon peeked round the front of the car, firing and bringing down another.

As Illya popped up from behind the car again, one of the T.H.R.U.S.H. thugs fired, hitting Illya in the shoulder. Illya’s shout of surprise was cut off abruptly as he stumbled backward with the force of the shot, tripping over the low fence behind him and tumbling right over the cliff edge.

“NO! _Illya!_ ”

Heedless of the approaching thugs, Napoleon turned, peering over the cliff edge in the dim light, desperately looking for any sign of his partner. The deafening silence was broken only by the sound of waves crashing on the rocks below. Something hard and heavy hit him on the back of his head, then everything went black.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Napoleon awoke, lying on his back on a cold, hard surface, to dim light and a throbbing headache. His first thought was, _Illya!_ , his heart thudding into his throat as the memories of the previous day (or had more time than a day passed? He had no way of telling) rushed back to him. He forced himself to calm down, breathing deeply through his nose. Panicking would not help Illya, or Napoleon himself, at this point. A mental image of Illya the last time he had seen him, eyes wide with shock as he tumbled over the edge of the cliff, assailed him, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, taking a shaky breath.

After a few minutes, when he felt calmer, Napoleon opened his eyes slowly, not moving a muscle. He cautiously flicked his eyes from left to right, taking in as much of his surroundings as he could. Once he’d ascertained that he was alone, he struggled to a seated position and looked around.

He was in a small, dirty cell measuring about eight by eight feet, walls made of cold grey concrete, empty except for a barred window high on one wall. He could see dirt and grass around the bottom of the window, so that most likely meant that the cell was underground, the window at ground level. On the wall directly facing the window was a heavy steel door, no doubt locked and barred. The rest of the cell was featureless except for a narrow steel pallet along one side and a toilet in the corner.

He got up and walked over to the steel door, examining it minutely. It was set into the wall, with no corners or crevices he could pry at. The window, while potentially big enough for him to fit through – although it would be a tight fit – was too high up to be of practical use, and barred to boot. A quick check of his clothing showed that he’d been relieved of all the gadgets he’d been carrying – the T.H.R.U.S.H. goons had been fairly thorough – so there was nothing he could have used to saw through the bars anyway.

One of the first things one learnt as a spy was how to compartmentalize: deal with the situation first, and save the emotion for later. There was nothing Napoleon could do, no way to escape at the moment, so he sat down on the cold, hard pallet to wait, vehemently trying not to think about how Illya was, at best, grievously injured with a gunshot wound to the shoulder and whatever injuries he’d sustained falling off the cliff, helpless to fend for himself because of his amnesia, or worse, dead after falling from the cliff onto the sharp rocks below.

After some hours, he heard the latch of the door being drawn back, and he tensed, ready to spring. The door opened to three guards, two of whom were carrying guns pointed straight at Napoleon’s head. With an inaudible sigh, Napoleon stayed where he was, knowing he had no chance against the three men. The third guard, one eye warily on Napoleon, stooped and put a tray of dry bread and ham, and a metal cup of water, on the ground. The group withdrew, the door clanging shut behind them.

Once the guards were gone, Napoleon stood and went over to the tray, weighing the need to keep his strength up against the possibility that the food and water were poisoned or drugged. Deciding that he’d need the sustenance to be able to stage any kind of escape attempt, he slowly ate the bread and ham, each bite tasting like dust in his mouth, and drank all the water.

It seemed that the food and water hadn’t been poisoned or drugged after all, as he suffered no ill effects after consuming them. The rest of the evening passed excruciatingly slowly, and with no other visitors to his cell, Napoleon was left to his pessimistic thoughts. He slept badly that night, his dreams plagued with increasingly vivid images of Illya’s lifeless body, battered and broken at the foot of the cliff he’d fallen over.

The next morning, the three guards came back, bringing the same stale bread and ham, and another cup of water. Two of the guards trained their guns on Napoleon while the third one put down the new tray and gathered up the old one, then they all left together. They repeated the performance around noon, and then again in the evening. Each time he heard the latch being drawn back, Napoleon steeled himself to be dragged out for interrogation, or torture – but apart from the three meals he was given, the day passed uneventfully, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

After four days of this treatment, Napoleon had had enough. When he wasn’t exercising to keep himself fit and ready for an escape attempt, or forcing himself to eat the food he was brought to keep his strength up, or pacing feverishly round the tiny cell, his thoughts were going in circles. Was it only the amnesia keeping Illya from coming after him? Or was he gravely injured, perhaps dead? Surely if Illya were at all able to, he would have shown up by now. His thoughts switched to U.N.C.L.E.. Waverly knew that he and Illya had been on their way back to Headquarters – after this amount of time, if they hadn’t shown up, surely he would have sent out a search-and-rescue team – unfortunately, not knowing the route Napoleon and Illya had taken, they’d have no idea where to look. And if Illya had been able to get back to New York and inform Waverly about what had happened, the rescue team would be here by now. Then he’d start worrying about Illya all over again, and the whole thing was driving him crazy.

There wasn’t a single detachable item in the cell for him to use as a weapon, so he settled on the plastic tray his food was usually brought in on. On the fifth day of his captivity, a few minutes before the guards were due to arrive with his lunch, Napoleon secreted himself behind the door, plastic tray in hand. As the door opened, the two armed guards looking around the cell, he ducked around the open door, grabbing the gun hand of the first guard and forcing his gun down with one hand while smashing the tray into the face of the second guard. He managed to swing a hard enough punch at the first guard to knock the man out, then as the second guard brought his gun up, he dropped to his knees, sweeping his leg out to trip the man. The gun went off, bullets embedding themselves in the wall of the cell.

In the end though, the third guard – the unarmed one – threw himself at Napoleon, pinning him to the ground as the other guard got to his feet and slammed his gun into Napoleon’s temple hard enough that he saw stars. Snarling, he pointed the gun in Napoleon’s face.

“Don’t shoot him,” hissed the other guard. “They want him alive.”

Clearly reluctant, the guard lowered his gun slowly, then without warning, aimed a vicious kick at Napoleon’s ribs. As Napoleon groaned and curled up against the pain, the two guards aimed a few more savage kicks and punches at him before leaving, dragging their unconscious colleague with them.

Napoleon lay on the floor for some minutes after they’d left, dazed. Through the haze of pain, he gingerly felt his ribs, checking for broken bones. He was pretty badly bruised, but luckily, nothing seemed broken. Touching his temple where he’d been hit with the gun, his hand came away bloody, but nothing that looked too serious. Dragging himself over to the pallet, he clambered painfully up onto it and lay there curled up miserably.

The next day, Napoleon was left alone except for his three meals again, the only difference being that he was now graced with the dubious honor of having an additional armed guard as part of the escort, and the original three guards all now glared at him hatefully when bringing his food. At least he’d tried, he consoled himself. He just had to think of another plan.

Napoleon was all too aware of the psychological effects of long-term captivity – all the field agents were. He knew that if he let it, the gnawing guilt that he’d failed his partner when he needed him most, and the creeping certainty that Illya was dead, would break him long before T.H.R.U.S.H. raised a finger against him. Yet try as he might, as each day passed with no word from Illya or U.N.C.L.E., he found it more and more difficult to fight the deepening gloom that threatened to overwhelm him.

Late in the evening of his tenth day in the cell, faint moonlight spilling in from the single barred window above him, he heard a faint scratching noise coming from somewhere near the window. A few small clods of dirt dislodged themselves from the ground outside and fell through the window, tumbling silently to the ground across from his pallet and crumbling into smaller pieces. Lying stretched out on the pallet, Napoleon squinted up at the window. Probably some small animal prowling around outside?

A dark shape moved across the window, blocking out the moonlight.

“Napoleon?” whispered a familiar voice.

Napoleon shot straight upright on the pallet, wincing as his bruised ribs protested the sudden movement. Fragile hope rose wildly in his chest, fluttering under his ribcage like a live thing.

“Illya?” he croaked, hoping against hope that he hadn’t started hallucinating.

“Oh, good,” said the voice. “Are you hurt? Can you climb?”

“I can climb,” he replied, heart still thrumming fiercely in his throat. “Illya, are you okay? You were shot, and – ”

He heard the sounds of rummaging from above, then a hiss as Illya ignited a small blowtorch and started cutting through the first bar on the window. The flame from the blowtorch cast the window, and Illya’s face, in an eerie glow, and for a few moments the only thing Napoleon was able to do was to look up, drinking in the sight of his partner’s face, brow furrowed in concentration as he worked on the iron bars. There was a hard knot in the back of Napoleon’s throat, and a prickling behind his eyes that refused to go away.

“I am fine, Napoleon,” said Illya gently. He drew the first bar, neatly cut, out from the window and laid it on the soft dirt beside him, then got to work on the second bar.

Napoleon let him work in silence, content to watch Illya as he carefully cut each bar and drew it out with deft fingers. When the last bar was cut, he disappeared momentarily from the window, and Napoleon heard his soft footsteps moving around on the ground outside. Illya reappeared at the window and tossed in a length of rope, the end dangling near Napoleon’s feet. He had apparently secured the other end to something outside.

Napoleon immediately started climbing, heedless of the pain from his bruised ribs. As he reached the window, he grabbed Illya’s outstretched hand, letting his partner help him through. As he’d surmised, it was a tight fit, but he just made it through.

Once he was outside, he took a deep breath of the fresh air he'd thought he might never smell again, and then just stood there, looking his fill at the man he'd thought he might never see again. Said man had dropped gracefully to his knees, untying the rope-end, then he expertly coiled the rope up and shoved it into his backpack.

“Let’s go,” Illya said, getting to his feet and shouldering his backpack. “With some luck, we should have a few hours before they discover you’re missing.” He noticed Napoleon staring at him, and tilted his head to one side. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” said Napoleon. Illya was right, they had to get out of here before T.H.R.U.S.H. discovered he was missing, or all his partner’s work would be for naught. Questions – and emotions – could be saved for later.

 

***

 

They hiked a few miles out of the T.H.R.U.S.H. compound, to a thickly forested area with a narrow dirt path running through it. Illya led them to a nondescript blue sedan that he’d hotwired earlier, hidden behind a dense clump of bushes. He tossed his backpack onto the back seat of the car, then got into the driver’s seat and started the car. Napoleon slid into the passenger side, closing the car door behind him.

As Illya drove them carefully on the dirt path out of the wooded area that he’d parked in, Napoleon turned to look at him, scanning him carefully from head to toe, relieved to see that his partner didn’t seem to have any visible injuries – although now that he was paying attention, he could see the telltale bulge of a thick bandage under his partner’s black turtleneck, wrapped around his left shoulder. Napoleon frowned.

“Illya,” he began, “your shoulder – ”

Illya hummed in acknowledgement as he navigated around a large boulder half-covering the dirt road. “The bullet hit the outside of my shoulder, so the wound was not too deep. I was able to wrap it with the bandages I found in my bag.” He sighed irritably. “What an inconvenient time for T.H.R.U.S.H. to discover that they actually know how to aim. Fortunately, it was not my gun arm.”

Napoleon blinked, startled. He distinctly remembered that the last time he’d mentioned T.H.R.U.S.H., Illya hadn’t even known who they were.

“You’ve gotten your memory back?” he asked hopefully.

Illya looked over at him and smiled faintly. “Some of it, yes. Some things are still a little hazy, but I believe the chemical is wearing off. I am hopeful that my memory will fully return soon.” He took his right hand off the steering wheel to brush his bangs off his forehead, and a flash of red on his palm caught Napoleon’s eye. Tensing, he reached out to grab his partner’s hand, turning it over to look at his palm.

Illya’s palm was crisscrossed with deep red scratches, clearly no more than a week or so old as the wounds were freshly scabbed over and still healing. Frowning deeply, Napoleon ran a finger gently over them.

“That cliff that I fell off of,” said Illya, forestalling Napoleon’s question, “had shrubs growing all down the side, so I was fortunately able to grab some of them to prevent from falling to my death on the rocks below.” He patiently allowed Napoleon to examine the cuts minutely, turning his palm this way and that.

“Less fortunately, however,” Illya continued dryly, “the shrubs were all some kind of thistle, so my hands got a little torn up when I was climbing back up.” He shrugged lightly. “They will heal.”

Absently, Napoleon drew his thumb gently over the soft skin on the underside of Illya’s wrist. Illya trembled slightly and drove a little too fast over a pothole, and both men were thrown back against their seats as the car lurched forward.

“Oof,” mumbled Napoleon. “Illya, maybe I should drive.”

Illya shot him a smug look. “One more thing that I’ve remembered,” he said, “is that you always drive. I believe it is my turn now.” He left his hand in Napoleon’s though, only returning it to the steering wheel when Napoleon realized with a guilty start that he was still holding his partner’s hand, cleared his throat awkwardly, and hastily released it.

As they finally emerged from the forest and turned onto an actual road, Illya broke the momentary silence. “I must apologize, Napoleon,” he said, “for taking so long to come for you.” He glanced over at Napoleon. “I’m sure the wait was not fun.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Napoleon vehemently. “I thought you were _dead_ , after falling off that cliff. I don’t even care if I’d rotted in that prison forever, I’d have been happy just to know you were alive.”

Illya favored him with a small smile. “It would take more than that to kill me.” He turned his attention back to the road. “While I was hanging over the side of the cliff, T.H.R.U.S.H. was considerate enough to discuss where they were going to take you. Rather loudly, too – unfortunately, they didn’t mention a specific address, only the general area, so it took some days of searching before I found you.”

He turned the car onto the lane leading to the highway and merged into the slow-moving traffic. “It was just as well, because it took a few days for my hands to heal, and another few for my memory to start returning – so by the time I found out where they were holding you, I was quite well-equipped to stage a rescue.”

“My knight in shining armor.” Napoleon grinned at him. “Or, well, in a black turtleneck, anyway." He paused. “What I can’t figure out though, is what they were planning to do with me – they kept me in that cell for over a week without interrogating me, or torturing me, or anything of the sort. It was driving me crazy.”

“Oh, I found that out too, while waiting for an opportunity to rescue you,” said Illya. “It seems that T.H.R.U.S.H. Central was undecided as to whether to torture you for information, or to use you as bait to lure U.N.C.L.E. into launching a full-scale rescue attempt so they could take out as many of U.N.C.L.E.’s resources as possible.” He shrugged lightly. “I do not understand why they did not do both. They could have tortured you first, and then used you as bait.”

Napoleon scowled at him. “You don’t have to sound quite so gleeful about it, you know.”

“But I _am_ glad of it,” said Illya. “That they took so long over their deliberations, that is. It gave me time to remember, and to find you.” He paused. “I would not have been able to forgive myself if something had happened to you because I did not get to you in time,” he told Napoleon seriously, reaching up to gently touch the livid bruise at Napoleon’s temple with one hand.

“Oh, Illya,” said Napoleon, guilt sitting leaden in his stomach. “I’m the one who failed you. You had amnesia, I should have protected you better – ”

“Just because I suffered temporary memory loss does not mean I was helpless, Napoleon,” Illya told him crossly.

“We weren’t sure it would be temporary,” Napoleon reminded him. “And it’s my job as your partner to look after you.”

“As it is mine,” returned Illya, visibly perking up as he saw a highway sign indicating a rest stop at the upcoming exit. He changed lanes and took the exit. “Speaking of looking after each other, we haven’t eaten for hours, and I’m starving.”

Napoleon laughed, some of the weight on his chest dissipating. “All right,” he said affectionately. “Let’s feed you, then.”

 

***

 

They got burgers at a drive-through – luckily, Illya still had his wallet on him, as Napoleon’s was long gone – then Napoleon persuaded Illya to let him take over driving, and they spent most of the afternoon on the highway. Illya pushed his seat back, stretching his legs out and tipping his head back, blond hair spilling over the headrest as he yawned widely, half-dozing.

As the sun dipped low in the sky, Illya leaned forward, opening the glove compartment and rummaging through it. He brought out a large map and unfolded it, examining it carefully.

“Finding us a place to stop for the night?” Napoleon asked.

Illya nodded. “It will take at least one more day of driving to reach New York. We should rest while we can.”

Napoleon nodded in agreement.

“A motel would probably not be advisable,” mused Illya, “since T.H.R.U.S.H. may still be searching for us.” He turned to Napoleon with a grin. “How do you feel about camping?”

 

***

 

The place that Illya had decided on for them to spend the night turned out to be one of the many national parks scattered across the United States. Since it was past closing time by the time they got there, the parking lot was silent and empty, the gates to the park closed.

They left the car along one edge of the parking lot and, taking Illya’s backpack with them, walked over to the closed gates. There was a heavy chain looped about them, secured by a large padlock. Illya dropped his backpack on the ground, then, kneeling, rooted through it and took out a lockpick. He set to work on the lock, absently batting his partner away as Napoleon leaned over his shoulder to watch, and had it open within minutes.

“Any idea where to go?” Napoleon asked, once they had entered the park, closing the gates carefully behind them.

Illya nodded. “This way.” He set off on of the numerous trails, Napoleon following him obediently. While there were tiny lights along the path at intervals, by now the sun had fully set and the lights were just barely enough to see by. Once or twice, Napoleon stumbled on the uneven ground, Illya reaching out to steady him.

“You seem awfully familiar with this place,” Napoleon said, squinting at his partner in the dim light.

“I’ve hiked here before,” Illya informed him. “A few times. I find it restful.”

“You have? When?” asked Napoleon, surprised.

Illya tipped his head to one side, considering. “The last time,” he said, “was when we had that week off, earlier this year – I spent a day here.”

“And you didn’t invite me?” Napoleon pouted at his friend, but wasn’t sure Illya could see him in the darkness. “I would’ve liked to come.”

“I believe you were out with one of your lady friends that day,” Illya informed him tartly. “Also, you’ve never been particularly fond of hiking.”

“No,” Napoleon admitted. “Still, I’d like to have come. With you.”

“Well, I’ll invite you next time, then.” Illya sounded slightly amused, but mostly disbelieving. “But you had better come appropriately attired. I am not going to carry you when your feet start hurting after walking a few miles in your dress shoes.”

Before Napoleon could formulate an appropriate response which didn’t involve an outright lie about the suitability of his wardrobe for an activity such as hiking, Illya turned sharply left on the path and started ascending a steep flight of roughly-hewn stone steps. Napoleon trailed after him. He could hear the sound of what sounded like a small waterfall, gurgling cheerfully over the stone, nearby.

They climbed for what felt to Napoleon like forever, the steps curving around behind the waterfall, which was bigger than Napoleon had first thought. The spray from the waterfall misted around him, cool on the bare skin of his face and arms.

The steps finally ended, widening out into a small ledge behind the waterfall. Illya led the way into a small cave carved into the rock, squeezing his way through the narrow opening. The cave widened out further inside, with ample space for the two men. It was warm and dry, the narrow entry shielding it from the waterfall’s spray. The faint light of the moon filtered in from the open mouth of the cave.

Digging a flashlight out from his backpack, Illya turned it on and put it on the floor of the cave, laying it sideways so that it provided some light. Under the warm illumination of the flashlight, the cave actually looked pretty cosy, the floor covered with fine white sand and some dead leaves that must have blown in through the mouth of the cave and accumulated inside.

“We should be quite safe in here for the night,” remarked Illya. “Not many people know about this cave, and I do not suppose T.H.R.U.S.H. would think to search in here, unless our luck is very bad indeed.”

“Okay.” Napoleon nodded, still slightly out of breath from the climb.

Illya put his backpack down, then wandered into a corner, shoving some dead leaves into a pile to make what would hopefully be a passably comfortable bed. After he’d arranged the leaves to his satisfaction, he stretched slowly, tilting his head from side to side to work out the kinks in his shoulders from sitting in the car all day.

It was the first reprieve they’d gotten after being on the run all day, but Napoleon still felt twitchy, restless; he was itching to reach out, to _touch_ Illya, to feel him warm and whole and gloriously, blessedly _alive_. He’d gotten into the habit of making excuses to touch Illya lately – small, casual touches, adjusting his collar or laying a hand on his shoulder or arm, but that wouldn’t be enough now; he wanted – _needed_ – more –

Illya, always seeming to be perfectly attuned to his thoughts, came over to him, putting a hand on his arm and peering intently up at him from under his slightly-too-long fringe. “Napoleon,” he murmured.

“Illya,” sighed Napoleon, finally giving in to the urge to tug his friend into his arms. Illya came willingly, stepping in close and laying his head on Napoleon’s shoulder. Napoleon held the younger man tightly, tucking his nose into Illya’s hair, feeling his partner’s solid warmth down the entire length of his body. Illya’s arms came up around him, hands broad and sure on his back. Napoleon took a deep breath and pressed his lips to Illya’s temple.

They remained clasped in an embrace for a long moment, silent and still, then Illya tilted his head up and back, capturing Napoleon’s lips with his own. His hands, warm and callused, came up to cup Napoleon’s jaw. Napoleon groaned, parting his lips; Illya’s tongue swept into his mouth, and suddenly, it was as if a dam had broken, Napoleon’s fingers tangling in Illya’s silky hair, Illya clutching at him desperately as the kiss deepened, turning from a fragile, tentative thing to something hungrier, more demanding.

They stumbled together across the cave, collapsing in a puff of leaves on the makeshift bed Illya had put together earlier, Illya lying on top of Napoleon. There, they kissed for long moments, learning the taste of each other, hands roaming freely over smooth skin and hard muscle.

As Illya started to unbutton Napoleon’s shirt, Napoleon caught Illya’s hands in both of his. “Stop,” he said, still breathing hard, “Illya, wait – how much of your memory did you get back – are you sure...?”

Illya blinked, looking surprised for a moment, then he smiled, his gaze softening. “I remember the important things, Napoleon.” Dipping his head, he brushed a gentle kiss against Napoleon’s knuckles, the gesture so achingly tender that it made Napoleon’s heart stutter. “Such as having wanted you for a _very_ long time.”

“Oh,” breathed Napoleon. He ran his thumb over his partner’s smiling lips, and dragged Illya down for another kiss, and another, reluctant to release him even as they stripped off shirts and pants and shoes. At some point, one of them reached out to turn the flashlight off, and they finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning sticky, sated and still twined together, Illya curled in Napoleon’s arms.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Napoleon woke up naked, with a crick in his neck and his equally naked partner still asleep in his arms, their legs tangled together.  _I could get used to waking up like this_ , he thought, nuzzling drowsily at the blond hair tickling his nose.

It was still dark out, and a quick glance at Illya’s watch – his own having gone missing during his capture – told him that it was just before dawn, and about time for them to leave. He gave himself a few more moments to enjoy holding Illya in his arms before reluctantly rousing his partner. Illya blinked up at him slowly, looking momentarily surprised to have awoken nose-to-nose with Napoleon, then he smiled, sleepy-eyed and vulnerable, and it was all Napoleon could do to not press him back down into their little nest of leaves and start the previous night’s activities all over again.

They dressed quickly and packed the few items they had brought with them back into Illya’s backpack, then headed back out of the cave. Now that day was breaking, the faint sunlight allowed Napoleon to finally appreciate the beautiful waterfall that he’d only heard the night before as they hiked back down to their car.

Illya was more than usually agreeable that morning, letting Napoleon drive without complaint. Napoleon chuckled at the thought that he seemed to have stumbled upon a method of making his strong-willed partner more pliant, then got hopelessly distracted thinking about the specifics of said method and making a mental list of various other things he’d like to try with Illya, and almost ran a red light.

Illya shot him a suspicious glance. “What are you smiling for?”

Napoleon cleared his throat sheepishly. “Nothing.”

He was forced to concentrate on the road when they picked up a tail – presumably T.H.R.U.S.H. – just after turning onto the highway. Conversation flagged as Napoleon weaved the car expertly in and out of traffic, brow creased in concentration, while Illya craned his neck to look through the rear windshield, snapping out instructions whenever it looked like the tail was gaining on them.

They had a nervous moment when the T.H.R.U.S.H. car drew almost level with them, the man in the passenger seat reaching inside his coat and appearing to be about to draw his gun – Illya reached for his gun, too, then by a stroke of luck, the car on the other side of theirs decided to switch lanes and Napoleon hurriedly took the opportunity to switch lanes as well, swinging the car wildly around a huge truck bearing down on them to a fusillade of blaring horns, and turned the car out the nearest exit.

They kept a sharp eye out after that in case the tail found them again, but managed to make it back to New York without further incident and parked the car a few blocks from Del Floria’s. Taking Illya’s backpack with them and warily keeping a lookout for any T.H.R.U.S.H. presence, the two men hurried toward Headquarters.

Just as they passed a small cul-de-sac, Illya suddenly uttered a startled exclamation and hastily shoved Napoleon to the ground. A bullet sang past where Napoleon had just been standing. A second bullet buried itself in the wall behind them.

“Thanks,” murmured Napoleon. Illya nodded, drawing his gun. They were crouched behind a bench, which barely provided any cover. Napoleon looked around quickly, then nodded toward a nearby dumpster questioningly. At Illya’s answering nod, he sprinted towards it, wincing as he heard the sound of more shots, Illya close behind him. He was almost behind the dumpster when he heard another gunshot and felt a searing pain in his left leg. He collapsed to the ground, Illya hastily dragging him the last few inches behind the dumpster.

Illya frowned at him worriedly. “Is it bad?”

Napoleon was clutching his leg, face pale. He shook his head. “It took a chunk out of my leg, but I don’t think it hit the bone.” Blood was soaking rapidly through the torn leg of his trousers.

Illya scowled. Poking his head out from behind the dumpster, he fired once, and was rewarded with a startled cry and the thump of a body falling to the ground.

“I saw two of them,” he said to Napoleon. “Did you see any more?”

Napoleon shook his head, his lips twisted in a grimace of pain.

Illya nodded and cautiously peeked out from behind the dumpster again. The second man was nowhere to be seen. As he turned back to Napoleon, a slight movement at the periphery of his vision made him instinctively duck and shove Napoleon further behind the dumpster – and not a moment too soon, as a bullet whizzed by inches from his head.

Scowling, Illya tucked his injured partner as far behind the dumpster as he could, then crept around it in the opposite direction that the shots had come from. He managed to come up right behind the remaining T.H.R.U.S.H. henchman, and tacked the thug to the ground hard. The man flailed wildly and, as he weighed significantly more than Illya, managed to flip them over so that he was pinning Illya to the ground instead. Illya snarled and snapped his head forward hard into his assailant’s face, the shock and pain causing the T.H.R.U.S.H. thug to loosen his grip just enough that Illya could roll to the side, grabbing at the man’s gun. They tussled wildly for a moment, then the gun skidded to the side, out of both men’s reach.

Illya leapt for the gun, but the T.H.R.U.S.H. man grabbed at him, dragging him back. Pulling a knife from his belt, the thug slashed wildly at Illya, who nimbly rolled to the side, then leapt to his feet. The thug, getting to his feet as well, advanced on Illya, who backed away. He was getting deeper into the cul-de-sac and would eventually hit the dead end, but there was no way out save going past the T.H.R.U.S.H. man, who was armed while he was not. Illya glanced around desperately just as his back fetched up against a brick wall. The thug smirked triumphantly and advanced on him until his knife was an inch from Illya’s throat – then froze as the cold metal of a muzzle was pressed up against the back of his head.

“I would advise,” Napoleon said pleasantly, “that you drop the knife right now.”

“I could kill him before you shoot,” blustered the thug.

“Just try it,” said Napoleon, and his voice was soft, ice-cold. “You’ll be dead before your knife ever reaches his throat.”

Silently, the T.H.R.U.S.H. man lowered his knife. Napoleon swung the gun hard into the side of the man’s head, and he dropped to the ground, stunned. Illya hurried toward Napoleon, who was using his free hand to brace himself against one wall of the narrow alley, handsome features tight with pain.

“Napoleon, your leg – ”

“Hurts a little,” admitted Napoleon, and abruptly collapsed into Illya’s waiting arms.

Illya quickly and efficiently tore off the sleeve of his shirt, wrapping it around Napoleon’s leg and tying it tight to staunch the bleeding, then pulled some rope out of his backpack and trussed the groaning T.H.R.U.S.H. thug up securely. That taken care of, he hurriedly dug around in his backpack again, taking out his communicator and opening a channel, snapping instructions into it for a medical team to come to their location immediately.

 

***

 

Napoleon awoke in Medical, muzzily, to the feel of a hand petting his hair, stroking gently through the strands. It felt soothing. He sighed, nuzzling his head into the hand.

“Good morning,” said a familiar voice, sounding faintly amused.

Napoleon jerked upright. “Illya! How are you feeling?  _Ow._ ”

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” said Illya. The amusement was showing more plainly now. He leaned forward and fluffed the pillows on the narrow bed up.

Napoleon considered this, leaning back against the pillows. “Not bad, actually,” he said thoughtfully.

“I’ll ask you again after the painkillers wear off,” Illya said dryly.

“What about you?” Napoleon asked. He narrowed his eyes at his partner. " _Please_  tell me you had someone from Medical take a look at you to make sure you aren't suffering any permanent effects from that amnesia gas."

"I had someone from the lab take a look at the formula we brought back," said Illya, completely ignoring Napoleon's statement, and didn't _that_  tell him all he needed to know. Napoleon hesitated, torn between the protective urge to send Illya to get looked over  _immediately_  and curiosity to know what the lab had found out.

"The lab tests confirmed that the effects of the gas are purely temporary," said Illya.

"I still want you to get looked over by a doctor," Napoleon told him sternly. Illya ignored him.

"Short-term exposure has been confirmed to result in no permanent effects," Illya continued blithely, warming to his subject. "The victim will fully recover their memory within anywhere from three days to a week - I'm just not sure if that's a deliberate effect, to incapacitate the enemy just long enough to capture them, or a genuine error in the formula on Stevens' part." He paused, looking thoughtful. "Stevens is not an unintelligent man - this most likely was a deliberate effect of the formula, then. So we won't need to develop an antidote..." He paused, then nodded firmly. "But I should look into whether it can be modified to have permanent effects - if that's possible then it's very likely T.H.R.U.S.H. would do it, and then we can be ready with an antidote," he said enthusiastically.

Napoleon regarded his partner, who was practically vibrating with excitement, fondly. "I'm surprised you were willing to let someone else in the lab look at the formula. I would've thought you'd want to look at it yourself."

"Oh." Illya was looking everywhere but at Napoleon now. "I had some things I needed to take care of," he said evasively.

Napoleon leaned back on his pillows and examined his partner thoughtfully. Illya's jaw was unshaven, his jacket rumpled, lines of exhaustion around his eyes. He looked like he hadn't slept all night - which he probably hadn't, Napoleon realized, because he'd most likely been sitting here, right at Napoleon's side all night. Napoleon swallowed around the lump that had suddenly materialized in his throat.

He leaned forward as his partner was still talking and took Illya’s hand, threading their fingers together. Bringing Illya’s hand up, he pressed his lips to the other man’s palm, crisscrossed with scars where the thistle bushes had torn Illya’s hands up after his fall over the cliff.

“Napoleon?” Illya’s eyes were wide, and very blue. 

"I love you," Napoleon said impulsively, and Illya's eyes widened even further, a pink flush spreading becomingly over his cheeks.

Napoleon tugged on Illya's hand, fingers still intertwined with his. Caught off-guard, Illya toppled across Napoleon, bracing himself with both arms so that he was leaning awkwardly over Napoleon, face inches from his partner's. Napoleon grinned mischievously up at him.

"Napoleon!" Illya looked scandalized.

Napoleon’s grin softened into a smile. “I meant that, you know,” he said to Illya, and pulled a blushing, unresisting Illya down into a kiss.

Illya parted his lips with a soft moan of pleasure. Napoleon cupped Illya's jaw with one hand, sliding the other through silky-soft blond hair as he began a leisurely exploration of his partner's mouth.

Things were just getting... _interesting_...when the creak of the door opening made them both jump. Napoleon started and released his partner guiltily. Illya popped upright like a jack-in-the-box and hastily returned to the side of the bed, where he quickly ran a hand through his blond hair, smoothing it down, then demurely stood straightening his jacket.

The doctor strode into the room. “Ah, good, you’re awake,” he said cheerfully to Napoleon. “Now perhaps you can convince your stubborn partner to let us run a blood test on him.”

Napoleon grinned over at Illya, who was scowling deeply at the doctor. "Been giving the good doctor trouble again, partner mine?"

"The lab results were conclusive." Folding his arms over his chest, Illya turned his scowl onto his partner. "There are no permanent effects. A blood test is unnecessary."

"Lab results or no, you know we still have to run a blood test whenever you've been exposed to any foreign substances, Agent Kuryakin," the doctor said placidly, seemingly immune to Illya's venomous glare.

"You heard the man," Napoleon told Illya cheerfully. Illya grimaced. As the doctor turned away, bustling over to the other side of the room to collect the instruments he needed, Napoleon discreetly reached out and squeezed Illya's hand. "I'm fine now, you know. I'll be right here when you get back," he murmured quietly. "And it would make me feel better to know for certain that the gas is completely out of your system."

With a small sigh of defeat, Illya turned and walked over to the doctor, who gave Napoleon a brief nod of acknowledgement before turning his attention to Illya to take a small sample of his blood.

 

***

 

Napoleon was finally released from Medical a couple of days later, with three weeks of medical leave and strict orders to rest. Illya drove him home, stopping to pick up some groceries on the way.

"I'll come by every day, of course," Illya told Napoleon as he put away the groceries he'd bought. "Try not to get too bored without me."

"You could stay with me for the time being," Napoleon suggested hopefully. "It would be easier for you if you didn't have to shuttle back and forth between your apartment and mine. And I'd like having you here."

Secretly pleased that Napoleon apparently wanted to see much more of him, Illya forebore mentioning that since he and Napoleon lived in the same building, it wasn't like it was a huge effort for him to take the elevator up and down a few floors every day.

"Okay," he said agreeably instead, and leaned over the back of the couch to kiss Napoleon, who was sitting on the couch with his injured leg propped up on the coffee table.

 

***

 

Three weeks later, Illya came back from work to Napoleon's apartment to find his partner standing in front of the stove, poking at a pot with a wooden spoon.

“I thought you were supposed to be resting,” he chided, putting his gun on the kitchen counter, then heading over to the stove to peer inquisitively into the pot Napoleon was stirring. It smelt delicious.

“Resting is boring,” proclaimed Napoleon. “And my leg's almost fully healed, anyway. It’s my last day of medical leave, remember?" He turned the stove off and slipped his fingers between Illya's white shirt and the leather straps of his shoulder holster, tugging the blond forward into a lingering kiss.

One thing led to another, and they awoke an hour and a half later in a tangle of limbs on Napoleon's large bed.

"I was thinking," Napoleon began, lazily combing his fingers through the cornsilk of Illya's hair.

"Really?" Illya said. "We should celebrate such a rare occurrence."

"I can't take your insults seriously when you're lying naked in my bed," Napoleon informed him. "Also, not quite twenty minutes ago, you were telling me how brilliant and wonderful I am. Should I repeat exactly what you said when I - "

"No, no, that's quite all right," Illya said hastily. " _Anyway_. You were thinking?"

"I was thinking," Napoleon said, "that since I'll be back at work tomorrow, I suppose you're planning on moving back to your own apartment soon?"

"Yes," said Illya. To be quite honest, he'd been trying not to think about it as the day drew nearer. As much as he'd tried not to, he'd gotten rather used to coming home to Napoleon every day, and he'd moved so many of his own belongings over to Napoleon's apartment in the past three weeks that just the thought of carrying everything back to his own, now semi-bare, apartment made him feel almost unbearably lonely.

 _Stop being ridiculous_ , he scolded himself.  _You're moving back to your own apartment three floors away, not to a different continent!_

"You'll have a lot of stuff to carry back," said Napoleon, as if reading his mind.

"Yes," Illya said. "I'm sure I'll manage," he added dryly.

"I've no doubt you will," said Napoleon, then paused.

Illya eyed him suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Or...you could just stay," Napoleon suggested, curling himself around Illya like a giant cat and nosing at Illya's shoulder.

Illya blinked. "What?" He craned his neck around, trying to see Napoleon's expression, but the older man's face was buried in the crook of Illya's shoulder and all he could see from this angle was the top of Napoleon's head. He nudged Napoleon away gently, brushing back the forelock of dark hair that always refused to stay in place no matter how many different hair products Napoleon used.

Napoleon peered up at him, just the barest hint of uncertainty in his dark eyes. "Well...I've gotten kind of used to having you underfoot all the time," he said nonchalantly. "And, ah, if you leave me alone, who knows if I might accidentally get myself shot again."

Illya stared at him, affecting incredulity, but a warm feeling was spreading through him all the way down to his toes, and the expression on Napoleon's face told him that the incredulous look was failing spectacularly. "I'd accuse you of getting yourself shot on purpose  _this_  time, but even  _you_  couldn't possibly be masochistic enough to go to all that trouble just to convince me to move in with you."

"You'll never know," Napoleon told him with a grin. "So...is that a yes?"

"I suppose it is," said Illya, smiling, and gasped as Napoleon rolled them both over and pressed his lips to Illya's, sealing the agreement with a kiss.

 

 

End.

 


End file.
